


Seasonal Lovers

by AllThatWeSeeOrSeem



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Assumed Unrequited Love, Emotional Hurt, Kissing, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Referenced Promiscuity, Smut, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 04:56:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8609635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllThatWeSeeOrSeem/pseuds/AllThatWeSeeOrSeem
Summary: Wherever Gildor and his band seek refuge for the winter, they are known for taking lovers from among the local inhabitants. This winter, they have come to Imladris, and Gildor has a long history of finding his way into Glorfindel’s bed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I can't help it, they're so beautiful! *sobs*

They are wild, roaming the countryside with neither home nor beds to call their own. The trees and the beasts of the forest are their friends, the open sky the roof over their heads, and the stars at night serve as their map and guiding lights. 

They are known for their cheer, for their wanton ways, and their leader is the worst and best of them all. Only in the harsh winter months do they leave the wilderness to come indoors, and it is an old understanding that Gildor Inglorion’s people exchange shelter from the cold with song and merriment and pleasure. When they are visiting, whether it is an elvish kingdom or any of the villages of Men, no one who is willing is left with an empty bed.

In late autumn, they swarm into the valley with a chorus of song that is eagerly answered by the people of Imladris. Here they are welcomed more readily than they are in Lothlorian or Mirkwood, where the stoic nature of the elves that dwell there causes them to resist the seductive nature of Gildor and his group. 

When they finally reach the main staircase, half of Imladris has come out to greet them. They are welcomed by Elrond and his councillors; Glorfindel at his right shoulder and Erestor at his left. 

Gildor approaches and embraces Glorfindel with the easy assurance of one who does not doubt that his embrace is welcome. Which, of course, it is.

They could be mistaken for kin, brothers, even, though Gildor’s hair tends more towards pale than gold, and Glorfindel has a small advantage in height and breadth across the shoulders. Gildor could enchant any of Imladris’ inhabitants into taking him to their bed, but it is Glorfindel he seeks out time and again. 

Glorfindel clings to Gildor, though half of Imladris and all Gildor’s people are within sight. Regardless, he inhales the familiar scent of him, buries his nose against Gildor’s neck, the fine strands of pale gold hair tickling his cheek. It has been twelve years since they last met, no time at all for elves, yet far too long for Glorfindel whose heart aches at the feel of Gildor once again in his arms. 

Gildor only laughs at his antics, though the laugh is softened by understanding and he does not let go until Glorfindel himself moves to pull away. 

By unspoken agreement they are not long in slipping away from the crowd towards Glorfindel’s chambers. Gildor giggles like an excitable child as Glorfindel pushes him through the door, and the weight of their bodies crashing into one another is enough to shut it firmly behind them again.

Glorfindel sinks his fingers into the other elf’s hips and hauls him closer. Gildor’s kiss is firm and warm. Then Gildor bites down on his tongue and pulls away, and Glorfindel shudders.

“Wine?” Glorifndel chokes.

“Valar, yes!”

Glorfindel crosses the room in three strides, snatches a bottle from the shelf without looking at it twice and pries free the cork. He passes it to Gildor, who tips the bottle towards his mouth – that mouth! – and drinks deeply before Glorfindel has a chance to search for wine cups. 

“Sit.” Glorfindel offers, gesturing to the twin chairs in front of a banked fire.

Gildor does. He passes the bottle to Glorfindel, who takes the other chair, sweeping aside his long curtain of hair so that it spills over one carved wooden arm of the chair to pool on the floor. Gildor watches the move with heat in his eyes. 

“How have you fared this year?”

“Well enough. And you?”

“Well enough.”

They drink. It is hurried, a long practiced formality, and they both know it. The wine merely stands in the way of what they truly want. 

“So,” Glorfindel says, draining the last of the bottle and dropping it to bounce against the rug on the floor, “how would you have me?”

“I would have your mouth.” 

Gildor’s voice is low and rich. He sits with his legs parted and Glorfindel shivers, longing as he has all summer to slot himself between them.

Gildor brandishes flirtation like a weapon, deals in pleasure and trades kisses like currency. He is ultimate master of his body and his charms. Even when he submits it is only an illusion; he is always in control.

And Glorfindel, Glorfindel he dominates as effortlessly as a seasoned horse master might bring a young stallion under his sway, forcing it to accept both saddle and bridle as though it had never known a wild life without. Glorfindel, the ancient balrog slayer, twice lived, who takes direction from no one else in anything, save for his sworn lord, Elrond. 

He rises and Glorfindel follows. They move as though in a dance or in battle, until they stand facing one another. It is Gildor who acts, pulling Glorfindel’s head forward and down to meet his lips. 

But the kiss is short, as moments later Glorfindel is on his knees. The ties of Gildor’s leggings part easily. Gildor laughs.

“You and your Gondolin ways. You taught me this, do you remember? Your lesson has served me well since then.”

“Hush.” Glorfindel admonishes, before freeing Gildor’s length and taking it into his mouth.

“Who else have you taught this to, I wonder?” Gildor muses, though his voice is breathy and hitches when Glorfindel pulls back to swirl his tongue around the head of his cock.

Glorfindel refuses to release him from his mouth long enough to answer. 

Gildor has taken to the pleasures of the flesh with abandon in the centuries since, surpassing the skill of all others. He has learned much in his wandering, bringing together practices from across the wide expanse of Arda. Gildor studies pleasure the way Glorfindel studies battle techniques, and masters them just as well. 

When they finally make it to Glorfindel’s bed, it is Gildor who takes their clothing from them, pushes Glorfindel back into the bedding and moves to cover the other elf’s body with his own. 

Glorfindel will not meet his eyes, though it is not shyness which causes him to avert his gaze. Rather, it is the wish to hide the deep love that resides there for the elf who, even now, is running a hot, wet tongue up the pointed shell of Glorfindel’s ear. 

Glorfindel groans, a bolt of lust tightening the muscles low on his abdomen. He has Gildor’s bare skin pressed against his own for the first time in over a decade, and he _wants_. Glorfindel is well known for his infinite patience by all but those who have ever been in his bed.

For his part, Gildor seems content to move slowly, tangling their legs and pressing their hips together. Gildor rolls his hips gently, over and over again, and Glorfindel wants to scream his frustration. Even his fingertips, clenched deep into the muscle of his lover’s back, is not enough to prompt Gildor to speed his unnecessary seduction.

“Gildor!” he barks eventually, but his outburst is met only with a breathy chuckle in his overly sensitive ear.

Yet Gildor does shift himself ever so slightly, and their cocks brush against each other now with every still-too-small movement of his hips. Glorfindel, not usually one to vocalize his pleasure, finds he is unable to stop the tiny low sounds from escaping his lips.

“Gildor, please!”

The other elf draws away slowly with one last kiss pressed to the reddened tip of Glorfindel’s ear. His hips have not ceased their motions, but Gildor props himself up on his elbows to look down upon Glorfindel. There is a small upturn to his lips and a little line between his brows, as though his face is not quite sure what emotion it wishes to express.

“I _have_ missed you.” Gildor says at length, as if trying to assure his lover of that fact, “I have missed your smile, and the weight of your gaze resting upon me. I have missed your touch, and the feeling of your skin against mine. I have missed – I have…I have wanted you. I have thought about you, even while my cock was buried in the body of another. I have been unable to find completion, on some occasions, because the person I lay with was too much unlike you, and I think – I think…”

Glorfindel can find no words to fill the silence left when Gildor’s words trail off. Instead he lifts his knees to frame the other elf’s hips with his thighs, rubs the bottom of his right foot along the curve of Gildor’s calf. 

Gildor’s eyelids flutter shut and he lets out a long-held, shuddery breath. 

There is less space between their bodies, now, not that there was all that much before. Glorfindel fumbles for the pot of salve that he knows is hiding under one of the pillows. Once he manages to grasp hold of it, he tucks the low, smooth wooden jar in the hollow between their bellies. Their body heat will warm and melt the contents.

Their hips are still, now, but their hands are not, roaming and exploring each other’s flesh. Gildor has no more words, but Glorfindel does not mind. Such words are enough to renew the ache in his heart, to cause hope to bloom which can only be false, which can only turn rotten and fester as disappointment instead of joy.

The cold seeps out of the tiny wooden jar, replaced by heat supplied by their bodies. It will not be long now.

Glorfindel yanks Gildor’s mouth away from where it is eagerly lapping a dark bruise on his collar bone. He seeks those lips out with his own, loose and desperate kisses because he is no longer capable of finesse. Gildor does not complain.

It is Gildor who reaches to retrieve the salve. When their bodies come together once more, the absence of its pressure between them is at first strange but so, so good. 

Gildor eases himself upwards, and lets Glorfindel know just how he wants him with nothing more than a gentle brush of his hand against Glorfindel’s hip, prompting him to turn over to press his stomach and rigid cock into the bed. They fumble in ensure their legs are not tangled up in each other, and Gildor gathers up Glrofindel’s long hair and tosses it aside to bare his back. 

When they are finally situated, Glorfindel rests one cheek on his forearms. His legs are spread just wide enough to accommodate Gildor’s own, hips tilted upwards to expose himself to Gildor’s touch. The balrog slayer would not allow such a vulnerable position with anyone else.

He hears the sound, the dull wooden sound, of the lid of the salve container being removed. He hears, too, as Gildor shifts on the bed.

The first touch is unannounced, but the salve is warm. Glorfindel makes an effort to relax, and soon Gildor is abandoning the pot of salve and lining himself up to push inside. Glorfindel’s body welcomes him easily, even after so long. Glorfindel himself welcomes him, though he moans long and low.

They are still. Gildor eases his hands and then his forearms under Glorfindel’s chest in a strange hug, crushes him between his own chest and his arms. Glorfindel feels completely enveloped by his lover, even though it is Gildor who has entered him. 

Gildor’s breath is once more in his ear, more unsteady than before, and Glorfindel knows the other elf holds his hips still with great difficulty, understands the all-consuming need to thrust, to chase down pleasure. Glorfindel readies himself for the consequences, then rolls his hips back and squeezes himself around his lover’s invading member.

The effect is instantaneous. Gildor cries out, arms involuntarily flinching tighter around Glorfindel’s chest, hips surging forward with almost brutal strength. 

At last, Glorfindel thinks, at last he has undone his perfectly controlled lover, at last he has managed to break Gildor free of his ultimate mastery over – 

Gildor bites him. Glorfindel gasps as he feels blunt teeth sink into the muscle between his neck and shoulder, hard enough to leave the divots of teeth and raise a bruise though not to draw blood.

Gildor is wild, then, and Glorfindel can do little else but brace himself and accept the onslaught of pleasure which his lover gives him. Oh, benevolent lover! Yes, there. There, there, _there_! One of Gildor’s hands moves down his abdomen to wrap around his cock and Glorfindel keens loudly and finds his release long before he is ready. 

Then Gildor, too, cries out, and the movement of his hips falters. He presses kisses to the back of Glorfindel’s neck, open mouthed and urgent as he shudders through his pleasure.

Glorfindel’s mind clears and his body relaxes. Gildor’s kisses turn languid, then cease. Moments later he draws himself out and away from Glorfindel’s body, guides him to turn over so that they are facing each other once more, bodies pressed together and arms around each other as though unwilling to be parted. Glorfindel’s release is smeared between them.

Glorfindel runs his lips back and forth across his lover’s forehead, not quite a kiss. Gildor’s ragged breaths slow. 

“Gildor, I…”

No more words will come forth. He tries, but it is a struggle, and any words which he finds he should say become caught in his throat instead. 

Gildor, mercifully, eliminates the need for him to speak farther, “I know what it is you would say. You do not want me for a season.”

“No.”

“You would have me always, as your lover.”

“Yes.”

It has been between them for centuries, well known but unspoken of until now. Glorfindel’s eyes are bright, though no tears fall. 

“You know it is not possible. You can not leave Imladris, and my people would not be content to come to Imladris each and every winter. To be yours I could not stay parted for longer than that, and yet to hold myself to just one lover goes against my very nature.”

“I need - ”

“You want.” Gildor counters.

“I love - ”

But Gildor shakes his head, and Glorfindel is silenced, “We cannot put those words between us.”

Gildor pets down Glorfindel’s ribs. The touch is meant to be soothing, but it is far from enough. Glorfindel drops his forehead to rest against his lover’s shoulder, hiding his face, hiding his pain.

In so doing he fails to see the sadness in Gildor’s face or the tears which fall from his eyes.


End file.
